It was the middle of summer, but the storm came in like an unwelcome intruder. Thick, black clouds loomed heavy above the earth, pressing down upon the landscape as if the sky itself was mourning.
The once-vibrant green mountain, normally a peaceful backdrop to the town, stood ominously in the distance, cloaked in shadow. The rain pounded down relentlessly, soaking the earth and turning the world into a blur of gray.
Near the base of the mountain sat an old house, built of oak wood and red bricks. Time had gnawed at its edges—the roof sagged, the paint had long since peeled away, and ivy clung stubbornly to the walls. Yet it stood defiantly, a relic of another era. Outside, a small pond sat undisturbed by the chaotic weather, save for the ripples caused by the rain.
A group of carps swam beneath the surface, their crimson and gold scales flickering like dying embers. With every drop that pierced the water, they scattered momentarily, only to settle back into their slow, disoriented circles, waiting for the storm to pass.
Inside the house, the atmosphere was heavy with the scent of aged wood and damp linen.
In one of the rooms, Zain Miller lay in a narrow bed, his body frail and withered. His white hair, thin as spider silk, clung to his scalp, and his face was a map of deep, weary wrinkles. A jagged scar two inches long marked his right forehead, a permanent reminder of the day the townsfolk had branded him a coward.
He had not looked in a mirror in decades; the sight of that scar, raised and angry, filled him with a shame that never dulled.
The bed was positioned against the wall, a small window on the opposite side allowing slivers of stormlight to seep into the room. Rain leaked through a crack in the pane, splashing onto the brown, worn bedsheet near his legs. The dampness spread slowly, but Zain barely noticed. His clouded eyes remained fixed on the window, as though searching for something beyond the downpour.
Around him stood five figures—three women in their forties, their faces streaked with tears, and two younger men, their jaws clenched against grief. They were not his blood, but they were his legacy.
Decades earlier, Zain had promised his comrade Veer, a man who'd saved his life countless times, that he would protect his family if the war took him. When Veer and the others fell in battle, Zain had crept back to the village, only to find Veer's wife dead from illness and his three daughters and two sons left orphaned.
He took them in, enduring the town's scorn to raise them as his own. Now, they clung to him, their sobs harmonizing with the drumming rain.
Zain's breathing was shallow, each inhale a battle. Memories flickered behind his eyelids—his parents' laughter as they bought him candied apples at the city fair, their faces glowing in the lantern light. They had refused to let him join the colonial government's army, fearing the war would consume him. For their defiance, they were dragged into the square and executed.
Zain, then Nineteen, hid in the cellar, trembling as their screams echoed above. He'd fled that night, joining the rebellion out of guilt, only to fail again.
The war had been a nightmare. He'd fought alongside Veer and others, their camaraderie a fleeting comfort. But when the colonial soldiers ambushed their camp, slaughtering his friends, Zain's courage shattered. He dropped his rifle and ran, stumbling through forests and rivers until he collapsed in a neighboring village.
A month later, he returned, starving and hollow-eyed, to learn the battle had been lost. Veer's body was never recovered, but his children survived. The townsfolk, grieving their own dead, discovered Zain's desertion. They cornered him in the market, hurling stones and curses. One rock struck his forehead, carving the scar that would haunt him.
"Am I going to die as a coward?" Zain whispered now, the words barely audible. The question hung in the air, sharp as the lightning outside.
The youngest man, Max, knelt by the bed. "No, Father," he said, voice trembling. "You raised us. Fed us, taught us… You gave up everything. You're no coward. You're the kindest and bravest man we know."
Zain's lips twitched into a fragile smile. For a moment, the weight on his chest eased. "They see me as a father", he thought. "Perhaps that's enough".
But it wasn't. The past clawed at him. He saw the battlefield again—smoke choking the air, Veer shouting for him to "run, live for my children", before a bullet silenced him. Zain had fled, yes, but he'd kept his promise. He'd built a life for Veer's orphans, working dawn till dusk as a carpenter, ignoring the jeers of "coward" from passersby. The children never knew the truth; he couldn't bear to tell them.
A sudden pain lanced through Zain's chest, sharp and cold. He gasped, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. The room blurred, the faces of his children smearing into shadows. Through the window, the storm raged—and then, a figure materialized in the downpour. A tall man stood there, his long black hair plastered to his face by rain. His eyes glowed dark red, not with malice, but an eerie calm.
"It's time to undo your regret, my friend," the stranger said, his voice cutting through the storm. "This is the beginning of the legend… The coward who becomes the bravest warrior in all the realms."
Zain did not hear him. His vision darkened, the pain swallowing him, he thought. "I'm a failure. A man who ran from his responsibility".
The figure smiled faintly, then turned and vanished into the rain.
In the room, Zain's breath stuttered. Arjun, the eldest son pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the last flutter of his heartbeat. The women wept openly now, their hands clasped over Zain's frail fingers. Outside, the carps still circled, the mountain still loomed, and the storm still roared indifferent to the passing of a soul.
Zain Miller died as he had lived: haunted by regret. Yet in his final moments, he had glimpsed a strange, impossible hope. The red-eyed stranger's words lingered, unheeded but undeniable, like a seed planted in barren soil.
Two days later, under the sprawling boughs of an ancient oak—the very tree where Zain had once taught the children to climb the family gathered to lay him to rest.
As they lowered the simple wooden coffin into the earth, the eldest son whispered through his tears, "Our father lived his life thinking he was a coward, always running from the responsibility that weighed on him. And yet, he gave us everything—raising us, protecting us, and even in his final moments, showing us that love can outshine even the darkest regrets." Max added, "Though we bury him today alongside Veer our true biological father, our hearts still hope that somewhere, somehow, he finally found the courage he so long sought."
As the storm began to wane and the rain softened to a gentle patter on the fresh mound of earth, the legacy of Zain Miller endured. His scar was hidden beneath a humble hat; his face, now peaceful, bore no trace of the battles he'd fought within.
In the eyes of those he had nurtured, he was not the coward of whispered curses but the kindest and bravest father one could ever know a man whose life, marked by regret and sacrifice, had sown the seeds of a hope that might one day bloom into legend.